


Shelter

by Silvereye



Category: Zero Hours (Podcast)
Genre: Episode S01E02 World Enough, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvereye/pseuds/Silvereye
Summary: "Come on," Buckland says. "There has to be some shelter from the wind here.""It does not seem likely," Shaw remarks.Buckland finds something unexpected on the desolate polar island.
Relationships: Joseph Buckland&Fredrick Shaw
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: Be The First! 2020





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Zero Hours is a podcast about the ends of the world. The episodes are all freely available [here](https://www.zerohourspodcast.com/season1).

"Come on," Buckland says when his boat finally disappears under the waves. "There has to be some shelter from the wind here."

"It does not seem likely," Shaw remarks.

Buckland picks a direction and stomps off, leaving the doctor little choice except to follow him. Buckland does not know what he's looking for. A large rock, he supposes, in the lee of which they could huddle. Anything else would be a miracle.

Shaw has become very quiet. Buckland has to keep glancing at him to be certain that he's still there.

"What are you looking for?" Shaw asks after a long, long silence. His voice does not shudder any more, which means he's freezing faster than Buckland is, but then Buckland is of sturdier build than Shaw. And for all Buckland knows, Shaw hasn't dressed for the weather either. It would be characteristic for him to be out here in a fur coat and undershirt.

"Shelter from the wind," Buckland grunts. It's hard to spot anything with his eyes being what they are and a grey lifeless island at south polar dusk being what it is. "Do you see anything?"

"There are hardly shepherd's huts on this island," Shaw says amiably.

"A hole in the ground will suffice," Buckland says. He stops, looks around, adjusts course for something that might be a smudge of dark grey against lighter grey. "Are these rocks?"

"I suppose they are," Shaw mumbles.

Buckland marches towards the supposed rocks. Snow crunches underfoot, dry and gritty like sand. As he gets closer the smudge resolves into a handful of boulders. The largest might be about as high as Buckland is tall. They are incongrous here on this desolate plain, but Buckland isn't going to complain about a miracle.

He stops twenty feet from the rocks and stares at a darker shape in the lee of the largest one. A dead seal...?

"What the hell is that?" he whispers, more to himself than to Shaw. If Shaw says anything, Buckland can't hear it over the wail of the wind.

It isn't a seal. It is a person in sealskin coat, almost wedged under the rock as if searching for warmth.

"Ahoy there," Buckland says, unsure.

No answer.

He takes a couple of reluctant steps closer. The person does not move.

"This is more your area of expertise, sir," Buckland yells towards the approximate direction of Shaw.

"I'd really rather not," Shaw answers with no enthusiasm at all.

Buckland sighs and kneels by the corpse, because at this point he doubts there's yet another alive shipwrecked idiot on the island. Which means that whoever it was arrived here before Shaw. So much for the already dubious glory of Tsar Alexander the First.

The corpse is beardless, but Buckland is certain it was a man, because there simply aren't women in the Southern Ocean. Freezing to death has done no favours to the dead man's visage. His own mother wouldn't recognize him, like as not.

Buckland goes through the corpse's pockets, looking for anything that might identify him. The only remotely useful thing in there is a handsome pocket watch on a golden chain. Stopped, of course, and identical to one Buckland saw less than an hour ago.

"Shaw," Buckland says. His voice cracks. "We found another bloody fool looking for the Southernmost Continent and he has your taste in pocket watches."

"I see," Shaw says. He hasn't come any closer.

"Shaw," Buckland repeats, very calmly. "What in all hells is this?"

Shaw doesn't answer. Buckland gets up, walks back to him, grabs him by the lapels. Shaw, white-faced and blue-lipped, does not resist. He hasn't cleaned up the blood from where Buckland hit him. It looks black in the long polar twilight.

"Why?" Buckland demands, because it is easier than asking _who are you?_

Shaw smiles. It's a pale impression of his former maniacal delight. "I wanted to be found. The Mirniy and the Vostok sailed on without me, once I was lost."

"So you... you lured me out here so I could find... that?" He jerks his hand towards the corpse.

"From what I recall you followed me quite of your own free will."

"After you tried to kill me!"

The corners of Shaw's mouth twitch. "I could not have succeeded, Mister Buckland."

Buckland lets go of his coat. "All right. I found you. You're not alone here at the end of the world any more. Now take me back."

"I can't." He sounds regretful.

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't. The islands your Cecilia is sealing on are more than a thousand miles west from here. It is remarkably hard to sail west here in the Southern Ocean."

"I did not chase you for a thousand miles," Buckland says faintly. "No ship sails a thousand miles in a day, least of all my boat."

Shaw shrugs. "I wouldn't know. But I... remember bits of cartography I shouldn't, occasionally. The location of your South Orkneys is one of those bits."

Buckland blinks at him. "South Orkneys is also not something sailors say."

Shaw's brows furrow. "What would you call the islands you were stationed near, then?"

"Powell's group."

Shaw hums. "I suppose."

"And you really can't take me back?" Buckland asks. "Not even try?"

"I... could try," Shaw says very slowly.

"Well," Buckland says. "That's settled, then." He nods towards the corpse. "Do you, um. Want me to... do something? Say a prayer?"

Shaw shakes his head. "Tell them I found the Southern Continent. I'm content with that."

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can never pass a chance to go "check out this cool data I stumbled on", things I discovered while idly looking up the few real-world names in the episode:  
> \- Shaw isn't historical, but if he were, he had to be a part of the historical First Russian Antarctic Expedition, led by Admiral von Bellingshausen.  
> \- aforementioned expedition passed the Fimbul ice shelf in early 1820. The episode is set in 1821, at least a year later. Also, Fimbul ice shelf got its name in mid-20th century, as far as I can tell, so Shaw calling it Fimbul is kind of anachronistic  
> \- this area doesn't really look like it might contain seals. Various islands a few thousand kilometres west were popular sealing spots, however. Including South Orkney islands that apparently were discovered by sealers in 1821.
> 
> Once I had discovered all of those things, the fic practically wrote itself.


End file.
